*
JANUS
*
“We must go seek the Midragardans,” Ayenwatha had quickly informed the exiles, as he guided them down to the banks of the river where the batch of long canoes were kept. “We cannot send anyone through the skies. You have already seen the dangers above. We will have to go by stream and river, even if it is slower. It does not spare us from danger, but we can defend ourselves, or turn to the banks if needed.”
Ayenwatha’s demeanor was resolute, but Janus knew that the war sachem was riddled with dismay and sorrow at everything that was happening to his people. The last images of the doomed village were still fresh and vivid within Janus’ mind. Janus had stood at the summit of the hill and looked on from above as the villagers had started off on their long march. Taking their first steps down the narrow paths of the forest, the survivors were abandoning their homes for the shrouded mysteries of the future.
Several villagers combing through the destroyed village, in the hopes of finding some extra scraps of food or useful implements, had passed right by Janus on their way down the slope to join the others. He had kept his eyes fixed ahead as best as he could, for they were already reddening with sadness and empathy for the warm-hearted people of the Onan village. The feeling of suffering in the air was thick and oppressive, bearing down upon him without respite.
He knew that the others with him, in their own way, harbored similar feelings to his own. Even Derek’s particularly stony silence and iron countenance belied his inner feelings, as he was one of the only exiles who seemed completely unwilling to look upon the departing groups of villagers.
As much as it pained him, something within Janus told him that he needed to bear witness to the terrible spectacle. Nonetheless, at one point he turned away from the villagers, having to wipe a tear away as it escaped his own eye. Even then, he discovered that he could not escape the melancholy sights.
He observed as a mother clutched two of her children tightly to her. The two children sobbed in her weary arms, as her own face struggled to maintain a facade of strength for the sake of her children. Her husband, his face drained from fatigue and grief, worked to finish filling some large pouches with dried provisions that he had been able to gather from the ruins of the village.
A couple of horses were being prepared for departure near to the family. Three men were working to affix a type of makeshift sled to them, two long poles spanned by hide, and pulled tilted up. Janus knew that they would be used to help bear along the more elderly members of the village. He had already seen a few such arrangements being put to use at the base of the hill, when the main throng had begun their march.
It was very fortuitous that a few horses had somehow survived the attack. The small horses, whose backs were loaded with packs already, stood without complaint. Their calm demeanors appeared to indicate that they were ready and willing to share in the extensive burdens of their keepers.
Janus’ eyes were then stricken by the sight of an old man standing alone near the village entryway. With a hollow look, he was staring back at the shambles that had been vibrant, inhabited dwellings only a couple of days before.
Janus knew that the old man was seeing much more than the wreckage that remained of the village. His faraway look transcended the physical wreckage before him, hearkening back to a better time. There was little doubt that the man had endured grievous losses in the attack, as his listless expression testified.
When the man silently turned and walked onward to join those who were leaving the village, Janus knew that it took great strength for him to do so. To lift his legs and step forward probably called upon a level of will commisserate with the most stalwart of the tribes’ warriors.
Janus’ heart ached watching the man’s slow steps. In that moment he knew that his heart had truly bonded with the people of the Onan village; a people attacked savagely, by an overwhelmingly powerful enemy, and left helpless and voiceless.
Janus looked around, and noticed Mershad’s distant stare, where the young man stood close by him. Mershad had a haunted look about him as he regarded the destroyed village.
“Come on, Mershad,” Erika then said gently, placing her hand on his arm to break Mershad out of his momentary paralysis.
Janus was not surprised at Mershad’s reaction, as out of the seven exiles, Mershad probably understood the Onan villagers in ways that the rest of the exiles could not.
The villagers had been deemed as enemies, to be destroyed by a far stronger attacker. Janus knew that Mershad truly understood those ramifications, as he had family, friends, and acquaintances in his own life that had been caught up in the storm of far greater powers. Janus knew that the experience of widespread destruction and loss was something shared at a deep level between Mershad and the villagers.
When Mershad glanced towards him, as he was led away by Erika, Janus saw a depth of sadness and anger reflected in Mershad’s face that pierced him to the core. As Mershad took his eyes away, Janus closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, as his sympathies for the young man threatened to burst. Steadying himself, Janus silently strode forward in the wake of the others, accompanying them out of the village and down the slope.
Ayenwatha, his body painted for war, had met them at the base of the hill, and guided them to the banks of the stream. With all seven of the exiles gathered at the edge of the flowing waters, Ayenwatha moved to help a group of warriors work to bring out the canoes. Antonio, Logan, Kent, Erika, and Derek moved forward to help them, leaving Mershad and Janus to themselves.
A few other Onan warriors subsequently joined them for the coming journey, as all were divided among the vessels. Paddles were distributed, and everyone participated in the rowing from the outset.
Muscles were soon strained to the limit, as they set off down the broad stream, propelling the vessels as fast as they could. Assumptions could not be made about the time available to them, and Ayenwatha, in the lead vessel, was embracing a sense of urgency.
Janus at least knew a little about their destination on this foray. Using tributaries, they would be making their way to a far-off bay, which opened onto the Great Waters. As Ayenwatha had explained, it was not far from that bay that a small island was located which harbored a small trading colony of Midragardans.
Far beyond that island, to the south, a few weeks-long journey by ship across the Great Waters could bring a person to Midragard itself. A land of many incredible legends, and populated by a strong and fierce people, Midragard was, according to Ayenwatha, the best ally that the tribal people could hope to reach out to.
Though incomparably dark times were befalling his people, Ayenwatha exhibited a flame of hope burning strongly within him. He had stated that the character of the Midragardans was such that the seafarers would honor their bonds with the Five Realms.
Janus took that presence of trust and hope to heart, as he put his energy into paddling the canoe, finding at its core that there was indeed a spark of inspiration to draw upon.
*
AETHELSTAN
*
Aethelstan watched the events transpiring in the sky, gripped with trepidation, and an acute sense of helplessness. The Saxan warriors that had been sent up to strike at the seemingly small Trogen patrol had suddenly found themselves facing a wide array of expectant, prepared Trogens.
A clever ruse had been enacted by the Trogens, the emergence of which had made time stand still for Aethelstan.
The Saxans had scattered apart almost immediately, which Aethelstan deemed to be a reactive decision on the part of Edmund. It was a very wise one, undoubtedly the only chance to salvage a few Saxan lives from the clamping jaws of the Trogen entrapment.